Post-production pick-me-up

El Jomo and I went down to Mountain View for an afternoon shoot and then shot back to the city to go over the video. The work session quickly adjourned to Perbacco, where we got to sample of couple of newish things. (So old-fashioned.)

First there was the roasted red and gold beets with arugula and Castelmagno cheese, and then came the seared squid with bean puree and lemon. (Tasted like Meyer lemon, but the online menu says preserved lemon.) Damn if they weren't dynamite. The highlight involved the bartender Scott, of course, and his improvised set of connected straws for Jomo to slurp some of my Ligurian white.

Yuck? The Okratini

Sophisticates put all manner of pickled things in their gin; why not Texas-style brined okra? It didn't quite have the toothsomeness of an olive or the crunch of a pearl onion, but lo, it wasn't bad. Behold.

Bistro East, Part 3

I'm a bit remiss in finishing the report of our trip to New York. The weekend got off to a rousing start when I met a certain ex-Kazakh gentleman Thursday eve at the venerable Knickerbocker Bar & Grill on University. We sat at the bar and kibbitzed with the harried bartendress, ate guinea-hen quesadillas (really), and ordered something like a few martinis. Whatever the final count, it was enough to prompt the 'tendress to offer us, unprovoked, a drink on the house.

By 8.30 my friend was piling into a cab to get to his next social engagement. I staggered back to the in-laws and tried to pretend to be half-sober. My cover was blown a couple hours later when Da Fanch opened the bathroom door and found me kneeling in prayer to the porcelain goddess.

The next day, work at the Madison Ave. headquarters of the Singular Capitalist was a bit rough. My head cleared a bit after a dash through the rain and lunch at a hot-pot pho joint on 32nd St. with my editor.

By evening, I was raring to go. After a tour of the Gray Lady's new armoire, my Riv-eting companion and I hit the West Village, which probably means a lot less today than it did, say, 25 years ago. We found a darling little spot run by Venezuelans, Flor's Kitchen, which was fairly cheap and down-home enough to serve gristly but super-flavorful steak and greasy but super-flavorful arepas. Just like Hugo's mama used to make it.

The culinary highlight of the trip, however, was served not at a restaurant but Saturday night in my in-laws' dining room. Cousins of Da Fanch brought venison from their upstate farm. We salted and peppered several steaks, seared them and finished them in a hot oven. It was meat the way off-duty chefs eat it: hot, browned outside, red inside, with a pan sauce that's half red wine and half blood. Chew on that for a while.

I've actually left out a few interesting meals, but like me after 10 days in New York, this post has had enough.

Aziza Night

K and I popped into our neighborhood destination restaurant for a couple of the seven seats at the bar for a little drink and bite. In the middle of doing two of the things we enjoy best and two of the things our friends enjoy best, inspiration strikes. But first the rundown:

Kristen has her glass of sparkling rosé. I start with the gin ginger, a typically Azizan concoction. Imagine categorizing your liquors, then pairing them with fruit or what have you that can be muddled or infused. My mix starts with muddled ginger and squirts of lemon/verbena, then a healthy pour of Beefeater and some simple syrup. It's iced, shaken, served. Delicious.

For the nosh, we share the usual delicacy, grilled flatbreads with spreads: roasted eggplant, yogurt dill and now chickpea, a novel variation. Feeling toothsome, I go for the sardines. They are arranged in a star patten in an enormous, round pasta plate, filleted and grilled, atop lentils, chopped peppers and fennel. I don't say a thing until I scoop up the very last dash.

So I'm making an executive decision: Alex and Jomo, mark your calendars and tell your sweethearts that I'm taking everybody out to dinner the weekend of Sept. 27-28. Table is for six. No excuses or contingencies. Final date is TK, and it'll be my treat.

Bistro East, Part 1

Greetings from Gotham. (And photo by cpzhao -- click here to see more!)

Showing off the Monkeypants to friends and family has been a nonstop endeavor and no easy feat. We knew that from the get-go when, waiting for our delayed flight to board at SFO last Friday, the captain came out to the gate to say it was some of the worst weather he'd ever seen in his career. He also said the grounds crew couldn't even load baggage because they worried the wind would rip the cargo door from its hinges. Oh, and Lila was completely congested with her first-ever cold.

We finally made it with nary a scratch (not even a peep from Lila despite the congestion and pressure) and settled into bed Chez Fancher before midnight local time. Less than 24 hours later, true to form, we were stuffing ourselves at the Saigon Grill on University between 11th and 12th Sts. There were seven adults, one rambunctious toddler, and our Miss Monkeypants, and we all ordered a dish plus a few more. Plus a couple bowls of soup because, hey, it's winter and we all had colds.

Somehow it all disappeared. We have a major difference of opinion, however, as to the quality. I'm feeling magnanimous. I thought it was pretty good. Perhaps I was dazzled by the quantity and the friendliness of the staff who accomodated our requests for stroller parking, a booster seat, and a small plate of plain egg noodles for 2-year-old Ezra. The Fanch begs to differ: "It sucked," she said, which, when pressed to explain, she upgraded to "really really mediocre."

A few nights later we left La Monkeypants with her grandparents for our first date night. Nervous as we were, we went all of two blocks away to a swanky tapas place, Alta. Lovely room, adventurous, extensive menu, but then there was Dean.

Dean was the first waiter who addressed us (though others later would bring dishes and take follow-on orders), and he was an idiot. "Excuse me," I asked, pointing to one of the menu items, Danish Pork Ribs roasted with kecap manis & coriander. "What's kecap manis?"

"It's the stuff it gets roasted with that makes it kinda sticky," was roughly his explanation. Not very descriptive, I thought, but I moved on.

"What's 'fideos vermicelli'? I don't know what fideos means."

"I dunno," said Dean. "I'll go ask."

He came back a while later and said, "Some kind of pasta."

I formulated how to proceed, and Dean -- a very busy man -- started to turn. "Um..."

"What?" he said. Not "Yes?" or "Sorry" or "Pardon me." "What."

"I figured that from the 'vermicelli' part," I said. "But I don't know what fideos means."

I think he shrugged and walked away. I was too stunned to think clearly. It was the most unprofessional act in a nice restaurant I'd ever seen. I wondered if he was the half-retarded son of the owner. There could be no other explanation.

The food was good, the Spanish Manhattan was one of the few $10 drinks I've ever felt was worth it, and the tapas were often spectacular and never dull except for the avocado relleno with crabmeat and shrimp. Silly us: to New Yorkers an entire avocado artfully sliced and stuffed with spicy seafood salad is $11 worth of exotic in January. To Californians, it's an easy 4-pack mesh bag at Trader Joe's.

The Fanch was so appalled with Dean, that a $50-per-person meal could be served by such a dolt, she mentioned him to the maitre'd on the way out. How did we know his name? On my way back from the loo at one point, I passed him trying to chat up one of the waitresses outside the kitchen. She was adding up a check and was barely listening, but another waiter passed by and said with a little passive-aggressive laugh, "Get back to work, Dean."

Part 2: Revenge of the Beefeater, a Venezuelan hideaway, and Oh! Deer

Mark to Market Bar

The Bistro Hugo's Mysterious Jomo brought me to the Ferry Building, to the Market Bar at 1 Ferry Building on the Embarcadero, and the first and last time I stopped in there last the place was clean out of beer. Tragic.

So here's the rundown: Plenty to drink this time. After wetting my whistle with a Guinness and then a Meteor Pils (from Alsace?), I ordered up half a carafe of dry rosé for the table, along with the prix fixe menu ($35) for myself. My first dish was the rabbit ravioli with chanterelles, an absolute knockout. Then I had the pepper beef filet, pole beans and a little chipotle, perfectly paired with a Grenache blend from the Chateau de Montmiral, Gigondas in the Rhone region ($38), picked kinda randomly and rubber-stamped by the patient and gracious staffer. The dish was perhaps a little overspiced, but perfectly cooked. I also got to tell my favorite cognac story.

My companions noted how the place filled up, and that was a surprise for me for a Wednesday, but hey, it's boom times. Thanks, Jomo!

Mixology

1-1/2 oz. Tanqueray Rangpur gin
3/4 oz. Campari
3/4 oz. Villa Italia blood orange soda from Trader Joe's

Shake with ice, and serve up.

I came up with this on Friday night. It's descended from the Negroni; I'm starting to think that any drink that's one-third sweet vermouth needs a tweak. I even put a shake of Angostura bitters in there just to see how it would work alongside the Campari, but it wasn't necessary. This is a summertime drink best served very cold on a warm evening. It works as an apertif. Pair with something by Lee Morgan.

The Tanqueray Rangpur probably works in a G&T, but it's not Martini material; I guess you could work with it in a Gimlet too. Inessential in your liquor cabinet.

Name my drink?

Whatevertini

Call me hypocritical, call me contrarian -- call me a cab! Especially when the topic comes to martinis. With all my grousing about philistines who ask if I want my martini on the rocks, and my loathing for apple-, mango-, and chocotinis, I'll admit that I've started straying from the righteous path. I put a lemon twist in my martinis. Sometimes the bitter medicine of the gin and the long-marinating brine of the olives need a little pick-me-up, something sunny at the end of a foggy summer day. Is that so wrong?

Q: How's Your Drink?

A: Nasty.

Sazeracelicious

Somehow, every few months, I find myself having drinks at the Redwood Room in the Clift Hotel. I never set out with it as my destination; I just end up there. It seems to have become the default après-ski establishment for a certain circle of my friends when we're in the neighborhood. I simultaneously like the Starckian décor and find it tries a bit too hard, and the crowd can tend toward the B&T — a couple of friends and I were once asked by an apparent bridesmaid whether we were wearing boxers and if so could she have them (I leave you to speculate on our response) — but whatever. It's comfortable and convenient and the cocktails are decent.

Last night was one of those nights, and I thereby discovered a reason why you might, with intent, want to pay the place a visit: They make an echt Sazerac, using Old Overholt, Herbsaint and Peychaud's. For some peculiar reason, they want to serve it on the rocks, but you will, of course, order it up.

Warning: You may find it difficult to stop at one.

Review: South Park Cafe

A recipe for a perfect night on the town: a bar seat at the South Park Cafe, a martini as the evening light fades through the leaves of the trees outside, doors and transoms open to the breeze, a selection of appetizers, perhaps an entree or two split between me and my dining partners, all followed with a warm night game at Mays Field which the Giants win, led by one of their young aces on the mound.

That's what happened Tuesday. The menu at the South Park doesn't change much, and why should it? I've never had a disappointing item there. In ten-plus years, I've never had a disappointing bite. Exaggeration? Absolutely not. The portions are not large, the prices are not cheap. But every flavor is well-considered, every dish its own world to explore, and the $50 one easily drops there -- an $8-10 app, a $20 entree, and two $8 drinks (OK, three) -- feels a bargain compared to so many of this city's self-important eateries.

The South Park has had the same red wines on offer by the glass for as long as I can remember. For lighter fare, the Mark West pinot noir is unbeatable: silky, warm and slightly tart. I had two glasses with the beef daube; one of the best stews I've ever tasted.

Review: Blue Water Grill

I'm a few days late with this one, but for the record, the Blue Water Grill on Union Square in NYC is definitely a place to go with an editor who's paying your way. My share of the damage: two martinis, a wild mushroom maki (six pieces), two single pieces of unremarkable nigiri, and a small asparagus-leek soup. My patron of the arts had a grilled tuna steak, very rare, a few oysters, and two martinis as well. Would anyone like to venture a guess as to the price, not including tip?

A new new thing: twice in New York I was asked if I wanted my martini up or on the rocks. On the rocks? Doesn't that disqualify the beverage from being a martini?

Pre-Theater Tip Check: Back Bar at Grand Cafe

The Hotel Monaco still packs in a crowd before the shows, as Kristen and I confirmed last night. We walk in and poke around, but head back toward the dining room past the wood-fired oven to the rear bar area, where there's quick service.

We split a mushroom pizza topped with arugula, which was delicious but not as crispy-crusty as it's done at Pizzetta. I couldn't resist a couple of oysters (I think they were kumamotos) with a big glass of Bass. They knocked my socks off.

Except for the trashed tourist the next stool over who wouldn't stop offering food to the staff in broken Spanish, we were happy.

Adventures in Kefir

Mac, a friend of the family, Duchampian champion and all-around intense dude, gave me half his yogurt starter the other day. It looks like enlarged, slightly yellow cottage cheese, or from the other end of the telescope, very small misshapen lumps of mozzarella. Making yogurt from the starter is a rather complicated process that requires boiling milk, hand-held thermometers, and ice baths, so I've followed Mac's lead and made kefir -- basically, soured milk.

I pour milk over the starter curds, seal it up tight in a screw-top travel mug, and let it sit out for 8 to 12 hours. The curds float to the top, the scent is reminiscent of an Afghani goatherd's leather slippers, and it's ready to be strained through a colander.

The curds go back into the travel mug for the next round. If kept in the fridge, they stay dormant. Otherwise, they grow like mad, like Tribbles. Or Gremlins. Or bacteria, which is what they are.

Yes, it's an acquired taste. If you like the sour yogurt drinks usually flavored with nothing but mint and salt and available at most Middle Eastern places, you'll like my version. Also good: throwing it into a blender with a banana, a tablespoon of honey and/or maple syrup, and fresh mint. Call ahead and I'll have a batch ready for you.

From Perbacco to Taco

Readers of this space, all three of us, will note that I tend to scour my work environs pretty well for all sorts to eat, since by nature I'm easily bored and restive. A couple of things have been hitting it right on the nose recently, and the first of course is the newest and hottest place on the megaexpensive restaurant row of the Financial district, Perbacco.

Suffice it to say that my wife, on unpaid book leave, is on Perbacco watch, and in her own nice way has conveyed that it's a sometimes treat, like foie gras or mofongo. I understand and agree; adding appetizers to your assortment of drinks means the tab's going to hit three digits in short order, so it's hard to eat while enjoying hard-to-find Carpano Antica and other alcohols in a swank but impressively laid-back scene. The booths there at the bar are up for the taking, and even though it's sometimes just my art director and myself, we're never asked to make room or even leave when we're just gabbing.

I love Perbacco, though I've never had an formal meal there. It will become one of those things I'll eventually get around to one of these years.

Years ago, dear readers, when the Industry Standard was produced out of its Pacific Street office, we could have used a taco truck. I've been prowling around the area pretty frequently since, but it seems sometime in the last year or so, a couple of guys pulled into the parking lot at Sansome and Pacific and have never left.

This is the real L.A. thing, with the couple of tables and chairs under the awning, at L.A. prices -- at $1.50 for your old-school taco (meat, beans, hot sauce). They even throw in free jalapeños. I totally stumbled into it on the way to El Zorro on Columbus and am a bit beside myself. I'll have a further review forthwith.